The Fop

In defense of Mr. Tom Cruise

It seems to me ofttimes that my life consists in a series of tragedies, and the cross I bear is a heavy one. In these moments this missive is invaluable, for relating the slings and arrows that misfortune foists upon me helps to assuage the pain. But I must not lose sight of the divine ordinance that first made me take up the pen: It is my duty to come to the defense of those peers that the penny dailies devour, and to shine the light of truth upon the slander they print in their execrable social pages. And as of late, these reporters have been engaged in a veritable feast. It is Mr. Tom Cruise who is impaled upon their spit, and Henry Wigglesworth of the Whitehill Courier sits at the head of the table!

A week ago Mr. Cruise moved me to tears with what was the most eloquent and sincere expression of love I have ever heard; bounding up and down upon Lady Oprah Winfrey's chesterfield, he proclaimed his undying devotion to Ms. Katie Holmes and swore lifelong fidelity to her. It was a wondrous sight, one both poignant and delicate, but soon the shadow of the bastardly press was cast upon it. Rather than celebrating their forthcoming union with the zeal traditionally bestowed upon similar ones, the fiends greeted the happy news with nothing but scorn and cynicism, casting doubt upon the honor of the couple's intentions and Mr. Cruise's very romantic persuasion! 

Mr. Cruise and Ms. Holmes' coupling shall not be the first that the penny dailies have run their battering ram through. I have watched with disgust as they have laid siege to royal unions,  and with horror as they drove apart lovers who had crossed the borders of caste and race. In short, no consortium is sacred in the eyes of the Henry Wigglesworths of the world, and those of us of the higher social order are forced to pursue our amorous pleasures in secrecy. Yes, dear reader, I too have a love , but I dare not speak its name. And until our world is one where Mr. Tom Cruise can hoist himself upon a chesterfield and proudly give voice to the patterings of his heart, I shall not breathe a word further upon the matter.

My railway apprenticeship: Day three

I found myself in the midst of the most wondrous dream this morning: I was jaunting about the city of Vienna, one hand holding a sack of mint berwick cockles and the other clutching that of my dear chum and travel companion, Crispin Devonshire. We had made our way to a charming little boulevard called the Ringstrasse, where I happened across a delightful pair of lace stockings that Crispin and I agreed would square quite neatly with my taffeta cassock. It was then, just as I was reaching for my pocketbook to make the purchase, that my dream came to an abrupt end. The vision of those lovely stockings was brusquely replaced with that of Ms. Myrtleberry's wrinkled face, as the old hag roused me from my sweet slumber to send me away for the third day of my wretched apprenticeship!

I sought to return to Vienna by napping during the trip to father's railway offices in Tuttle Village, but the carriage ride was a terribly bumpy one, and sleep eluded me. When I disembarked I was in a thoroughly agitated state, cheered only by the knowledge that, having arranged for the preparation of a private lock and key, I would travel in the building's lift alone, without the nuisance of beggar children or Chinamen. But as you well know, esteemed reader, Fortune frowns upon me, in these recent days more so than ever before. The cursed lift operator had failed to heed my instructions, claiming mechanical ignorance, and the lift's doors opened to greet me with a horde of filthy plebeians.

I went into an absolute fit, one of such magnitude that I do not recall how long it lasted (although the soil on my pantaloons suggested to me that at one point I must have fallen to the floor and rolled about). When I emerged from this emotional torrent, father's face was beet-red and the general assembly seemed to be in a state of shock. It was an effective demonstration indeed, and it saved me from a dirty day on the lift! Instead, I was instructed to present myself at the workmen's shed, where I was to toil alongside the Chinamen.

I am not a man built for physical undertakings. Of course, I am quite capable of such, but my standing does not permit it -- were a gentleman of my stature to lower himself to donkeywork before the peasantry, social chaos would not be far behind. The railway foreman must also have been aware of the importance of preserving the social order, for upon taking sight of me in my gentle garb, he suggested that I leave the work to the workers and spend the day in the shed, where I was to sit quietly and watch the proceedings through a small window. It was an arrangement that suited me nicely, and the foreman as well: I am sure that the presence of my watchful eye promoted industriousness among his peons.

And industrious these Chinamen are indeed! They worked diligently throughout the day, and seemed to even take pleasure in their travail. On several occasions I left the shed to examine them more closely, and was met each time with waves of delighted laughter! It was a glee undoubtedly born of the satisfaction of their drudgery, and could only be quieted with the foreman's whip.

These sights awakened a great curiosity in me, and I am eager to learn more of these cheerful folk and their native land. If I am to return to the railway offices, perhaps I shall seek out the two Chinamen who took such pleasure in my appearance on the first day of my apprenticeship. Crispin and I have often spoken of exploring the mysteries of the East, and perhaps these two chaps could serve as guides.

Let slip the dogs of war!

Tonight a great divide has sundered our household, one that I feel shall ne'er be traversed. We have entered into a state of conflict, one which neither truce nor surrender shall cease. I fear that peace shall only be salvaged with the demise of one of the warring parties: Mine own, or that of Prudence the cook!

In an earlier missive, I told of the arrival of Prudence, and of the manner in which she, under the banner of nutritional sanctity, swept all things tasty and sweet from the kitchen pantries. This at first caused me considerable anxiety and distress, but I am an ingenious fellow, and swiftly concocted a solution. Thenceforth, at my daily visit to the sweets shop, I would purchase an additional quantity of treats to enjoy at my leisure. I would then stow them away in my private pantry: A velvet-lined Mauchline snuff box which I kept hidden away under my bed! It was a cracking good plan, in that it both concealed the delicacies from Prudence's prying eyes and afforded me the opportunity to use the lovely Mauchline box (which until then had only proved suitable for marble storage).

Today, after a good romp about town with my old chum Crispin Devonshire, I returned home with a taste for some cinnamon balls. I stole into my room, retrieved my Mauchline box... and discovered it empty! A frantic search of my quarters did not unearth the rations, but it did provide a clue as to their mysterious disappearance: An oil lamp by the entryway had been upset, no doubt inadvertently toppled by Prudence's enormous girth in her very act of theft!

I resisted the instinct to confront Prudence directly, instead biding until the evening supper when I could expose her in the company of father and Ms. Myrtleberry. The hour arrived, and I sat down to the table, gleefully anticipating the look of shock and disgust on their faces at the news, and Prudence's ensuing dismissal from the grounds.  So imagine my horror, dear reader, to learn that not only did my guardians know of the criminal act, they had endorsed it! They have agreed to allow Prudence to extend her dietary crusade outside the confines of the kitchen, and she intends to use this new freedom to deprive my palate of all treats and pastries!

My mind is all atwitter, for I know not what I shall do. I cannot satisfy my stomach's cravings in the sweets shop, or in a public house or anywhere else in the general view, for the same reason that I will not wear short pants: It is not behaviour befitting of a gentleman. And I cannot have Crispin sneak sour plooms or pontefract cakes into the household for me, for Prudence is terribly suspicious of him and insists upon searching his pockets at the entryway.

I do know this, however: By her actions, Prudence the cook has declared war. If my sustenance is restricted to her beet tarts and turnip stews, I shall surely perish. My only recourse is to instead bring about her demise -- or, failing that, her swift dismissal. The means by which I shall achieve this continue to elude me, but I am confident that Crispin will help me devise a strategy. He is such a clever lad, and shrewd, too.

Mr. David Chappelle and Sir Axl Rose

A mental affliction has recently befallen Mr. David Chappelle, a negro farceur, and he has retreated deep into the dark heart of the African continent. To little surprise, Henry Wigglesworth and his journalist peers have seized upon the man's misfortune as an occasion for celebration: They splash his frightened face upon the pages of their wretched penny dailies each morning, and rejoice in surmising upon the cause of the man's dementia. Do they not see that it is by their very own handiwork that this now-mournful jester has been sent fleeing to his ancestral lands?

The crucifixion of a man of social standing is a daily occurence in the social pages, yet the plight of poor Mr. Chappelle has affected me most profoundly. For his current woes bring forth in my mind another tragedy of years past, one which I had hoped to abolish from my memory forever... that of Sir Axl Rose. In the late years of an earlier century, Sir Rose's ballads played softly in many a young lad's ears. His verses were ardent, and his cherubic voice the perfect channel for them -- particularly when accompanied by the strumming hand of a fellow virtuoso. In my youth, I had occasion to attend one of Sir Rose's recitals, but declined for fear that a fellow concertgoer might visit violence upon me. It is a decision that haunts me to this day, for shortly thereafter, the editors at the penny dailies set about dismantling the man's life -- just as they are assaulting Mr. Chappelle's today!

I will not dwell upon the sordid details of Sir Rose's demise; to do so would be too arduous for you and I both, dear reader. Instead, let us take comfort in the knowledge that, though now estranged from the fame and renown due onto him, Sir Rose has found some solace in things otherworldly. I have learned that he is a student of the Arcos Cielos Research Center, where, under the tutelage of Dr. Elliott Maynard (an alumnus of the University of the Trees), he is learning of the Hundredth Monkey Phenomenon and the Magnificent Engines of Gaia. Mr. Chappelle, take heed! For though Henry Wigglesworth and his minions have set their claws upon you, they have no claim over your social rank and the proximity to the spiritual that comes with it. Sir Axl Rose and Kirk Cameron both have found refuge in piety; I implore you to do the same.

A weekend at the sanitarium

I have received some inquiries regarding my recent neglect of this missive, and my grounds for doing so are quite plain: I am a poet and an artist! Mine is the soul of a wandering nomad, and it can be restricted to a schedule no more than the Bedouin can be restricted to a little patch of sand!

It is for this reason that I have neglected my missive; this and the fact that I was away throughout the weekend, visiting my Aunt Lavinia at the sanitarium. This sojourn was, naturally, not one of my own choosing, and it would have been an altogether rotten affair were it not for the companionship of my dear chum and kindred spirit, Crispin Devonshire. Father initally resisted the idea of Crispin's presence -- after the events of the physiognomy lecture, he would have it that I abandon Crispin's fellowship entirely. But the combination of the terrible fuss that I made and Aunt Lavinia's renowned distaste for tardiness prompted him to relinquish. The three of us set out for the sanitarium together early Saturday morning, with Crispin and I giggling and father grumbling all the way.

The sanitarium is half a day's travel away, and although it is surrounded by rather pleasant countryside, the age and generally decrepit state of its inhabitants give the place the air of a charnel house. Aunt Lavinia first took up residence at the institution after she came down with a case of consumption; she has since recovered, but the condition seemed to have left her with the mark of a terrible scowl, which I notice every time that father and I visit. Father's face, however, is usually plastered with a similar expression when in her company. I believe that he actually detests the woman, and only attempts to curry her favour because so many of the family's land holdings are in her name.

With father devoted to pandering to the old bag, Crispin and I set about entertaining ourselves -- a difficult endeavour in a sanitarium that has been stripped of all amusements and is entirely populated by invalids. We eventually settled on a game of Hide-and-Seek, which proved to be quite rousing! The grounds of the sanitarium are rather expansive, so much so that our game persisted until dusk, and I had begun to fear that I would never see Crispin again. After a thorough search of the kitchen I had resigned myself to the conclusion that my beloved chum had somehow met a terrible demise; that he had fallen into a salt bath and drowned, or locked himself into a traveler's trunk and suffocated. These dark thoughts soon had me reduced to tears, when who should burst out of a crate of bran but dear Crispin! I was overwhelmed with such relief that I immediately took him into a close embrace, caring little that in doing so I was transferring his bran coating onto my new puffed-shoulder shirt.

Our celebratory reunion was soon interrupted by the sanitarium director, who took us both by an ear and escorted us back to father. It seems that the bran which Crispin had cloaked himself in was of considerable value to the director, who employs it to administer bran baths to opium addicts. Enraged that Crispin had contaminated a year's supply, the director immediately ordered the three of us off the sanitarium grounds.

Father has not exchanged a single word with me since the incident, and even Ms. Myrtleberry is in a state at the condition of my clothes. I, however, remain quite pleased with the weekend's proceedings, for I believe that the note on which it ended shall save me from any future visits to the sanitarium. For this, I have only Crispin to thank -- dear, dear Crispin!

 

My railway apprenticeship: Day two

This day was the second of my apprenticeship at father's railway offices, and it commenced again in a dreadful spirit -- one which I fear I may become accustomed to. I believe that the moon was still hanging in the sky when father's secretary, Ms. Agatha Myrtleberry, awoke me with a piercing cry, and I had been hustled into our carriage before even rubbing the sleep from my eyes!

Well, perhaps I am puffing up the morning's events a tad, for I did have occasion to fashion myself in the garments of my choice, namely the same handsome tweed overcoat and frilly stockings that father forbade me from wearing to the fox hunt. Moreover, in anticipation of spending the day imprisoned in father's private office, I was able to secrete away my set of marbles, with which I planned to amuse myself. And upon our arrival at the ghastly offices, there was little I would have liked more than a cheery game of Spans and Snops to brighten away the gloom of the carriage ride. Alas, foul fortune would not have it; this second day of my apprenticeship would see neither respite nor pleasant distraction, but consisted instead in constant motion.

Upon disembarking the carriage, I was met by a Mr. Frippleton, a thin little man with translucent skin and a tremendous mole situated smack in the middle of his bald head (producing an effect that is so objectionable, I considered offering the man my own periwig with which to cover it). Mr. Frippleton oversees the delivery of messages throughout the railway offices and he greeted me with the unhappy news that I was to be conscripted into his army of couriers. I immediately launched into a protest, but Frippleton cut me short, explaining that -- although he wanted no more of my company than I did his -- father had insisted upon my assuming this duty as a means of learning the workings of the various departments.

There are a number of unpleasantries associated with the role of courier, and my simultaneous realization of them hit me with such a force, I nearly went into a swoon. It should first be noted that I am not at all cut for the company of couriers; they are of a much lower caste, and the eldest among them is no more than half my age! Moreover, delivering messages is a punishing task, demanding a constant flitting about between floors.

Yet one tribulation proved crueler than all the rest, for it came to me disguised as a blessing. The building that houses father's railway offices is one of a few in the city that employs a mechanical lift, a marvelous invention that father had installed after a case of the gout left him with a limp. When measured against tramping up and down the stairs, the use of a lift at first seems a mercy. But the price that such convenience commands is far too great.

For, as you may be surprised to learn, dear reader, that one does not travel in a lift alone. In addition to the lift operator, one is forced to share the vehicle with a host of other passengers -- sometimes as many as six or seven at a time! This can make for quite a motley crew, and during any given ascent, you may find couriers, secretaries and Chinamen all riding in the same lift. Given such unhygienic company, my day spent traveling between the floors left me in a sordid state, with my tweed overcoat and frilly stockings all besmirched with their soil and stench!

I have instructed the lift operator to build a lock into its doors, and once he has done so, I shall take sole possession of the key. Because I had to share it, Ms. Myrtleberry shall be up all hours scrubbing my pantaloons, and I am sure that the sound of her labours will disturb my sleep. If, God forbid, my apprenticehip sees a third day, I intend to spend it on the lift alone.

 

Sir Mel Gibson's Paparazzi

I shall rarely transcribe my reflections on certain picture shows, for I scarcely ever have the energy to do so -- watching them can be such a taxing enterprise. This evening's show, however, has proved to be the exception. I am in such a state of excitement and exhiliration over the story I have just witnessed, I do not know if I will sleep at all tonight!

The picture show was entitled Paparazzi, and it is the work of Sir Mel Gibson, a man I know to be of great enterprise and unwavering faith. It is a chilling tale, concerned with a character named Bo Laramie who is dogged by two curses. The first is an ugly heir, Zachary, a child with a forehead of such proportions that one feels quite sure that he shall never join his father as a public entertainer. The second consists in the repugnant photographers of the penny dailies, who badger poor Bo at every turn and come to cause great harm to his family.

At its outset, Paparazzi seems a tragic tale, and I was at first relieved to have brought my handkerchief with me. But it soon becomes a rousing yarn of vengeance, and midway through this picture show I was waving that very tear-soaked 'kerchief above my head in celebration! Watching Bo visit retribution upon the fiends of the press stirred my very soul. How it would please me to do the same to the dogs that hound me -- how I would cherish the opportunity to push Henry Wigglesworth in front of a passing carriage, or to drop a stone on the head of one of his photographer minions!

While I am tempted to encourage one and all to attend Paparazzi, I also know that only my peers of similar social stature will take true satisfaction from it. I pray that readers of lower standing do not take offense -- you must understand that if you have not been persecuted by the penny dailies yourself, you cannot possibly comprehend Bo's plight! Instead, I would direct you to view The Pacifier. I understand that this particular picture show is very popular among the plebeian masses.

The fox hunt

I was forced to accompany father on the fox hunt today. I have resisted doing so for many months now, for I find it to be a cruel and humiliating custom -- the scarlet hunting coats are not at all in the day's fashion, and the hounds give off a horrid and pungent odour. But with this day being the last of the season, father was insistent that I attend, and sought to persuade me by indicating that many captains of industry would be present, and that my acquaintance with them would well serve my future in the railways business. What a bunch of rot! I couldn't give a sod about the wretched captains of industry, and am only engaged in the railways as a means of securing my monthly stipend!

Father's adamance won the day, however, which started on a dreadful note as a result of my attire. I recently acquired a lovely tweed overcoat, and I envisioned that it would present itself splendidly against the background of the moors of the hunting grounds -- particularly so when matched with my frilly stockings. Father disagreed and, all red in the face at my ensemble, he ordered me back to the wardrobe, where I was fitted with a scarlet hunting jacket at least two measures too large. This first incident set the note for the remainder of the day, which was an absolute anguish.

I shall not recount all the minute miseries of the day, dear reader, for it should reduce both you and I to tears. But there was one hardship which loomed above all the rest: the presence of a Mr. Henry Wigglesworth, the social pages editor of the Whitehill Courier! Yes, my very bane was in attendance, twirling his moustache and parading about in a black velvet cap like the cock of the walk. The pit of my stomach froze at the sight of him, and you can imagine my dread to see the fat little man take notice of father and I, then steer himself in our very direction!

Now, father has confessed to Ms. Myrtleberry and I that he is no admirer of Henry Wigglesworth, but respects him as a man of influence and thus holds his tongue in the bastard's presence. He would that I do the same, but I am a poet and an artist, and have fire in my belly! I am not capable of such restraint, and most certainly was not on this occasion. So when Wigglesworth snidely expressed his pleasure at meeting the young man who appeared so regularly in his penny daily, I responded in kind, remarking, "That pleasure, Sir, is yours alone."

It was a rather shrewd retort, and the impact of its thrust was immediate. Wigglesworth's forehead bulged out and he began sputtering, his escort choked upon his licorice roll, and father bit the inside of his cheek so severely that he drew blood! He hustled me off the hunting grounds immediately, and we shared the carriage ride back home in silence.

I sat at evening supper alone under the withering glare of Ms. Myrtleberry; father's mouth was stuffed with cotton balls soaked in carbolic acid, preventing him from eating. I envied him, for the meal that Prudence had prepared -- a cold cod soup accompanied by rhubarbs -- was  entirely execrable. I still must devise some means of doing away with this horrid woman. Perhaps in bed tonight I shall dwell upon the predicament.